


Last the Night

by FadedSepia



Series: WinterHawk Bingo [4]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Time period, Alternate Universe - Noir, F/F, Historic Language, M/M, One-armed Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Clint Barton runs a pawnshop. When an early morningcustomerarrives looking to cut a deal, Clint might be in for a bit more than he expected.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, pre-James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: WinterHawk Bingo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584478
Comments: 124
Kudos: 71
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> I didn’t assign a specific year to this because I wanted more of the _start of a pulpy Noir paperback_ feel.
> 
> Not beta read. I just decided to slap this up tonight because it was done.
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Business was shittier than Clint had expected for a pawnshop on a Friday. Bills were coming due, but – luckily – so was the rent from his tenants. That would keep him afloat to cover the heating and the sewage costs; to make sure the people calling his building home didn’t freeze to death or wind up better off on the street, at least for this month. Scott had handed his off on his way to the night shift at the mill, and Cassie had waved to Clint from their doorway. Jessica’s was outside his door under a bottle of vodka; good shit, that he could maybe share with Nat the next time she dropped in. Matt’s was on Clint’s dining table as usual, despite the man claiming to be blind and not even having a key.

Clint sat at that table now, parcelling out the funds for the expenses and half listening to his two strangest tenants arguing beneath him. As long as they didn’t keep Lang’s kid up, it didn’t matter. Clint could roll onto his right side, muffle the world in his pillow and leave his busted ear up. He’d sleep just fine like that. Although that would have to come after dinner which – for the third night this week – was going to be fried potatoes and onions, and after taking Lucky for a walk.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

It was – by the clock on his dresser – just past three in the morning, and the buzzer he’d connected to the back of the shop was ringing. If Clint wasn’t expecting a delivery this early, he certainly wasn’t prepared to find four strangers waiting in the alleyway behind his shop. He opened the top half of the back Dutch door, speaking out to them through the metal safety screen. “Good morning?”

“You’re a broker?” The woman who spoke was the _smallest_ person out in the alley, but between her heels, her suit, and her _stance,_ she also gave off the air of being the most dangerous. Another woman, this one in a suit jacket and pants, stood to her left, face set with a smirk that made his skin crawl. Behind them stood two of the _largest_ men Clint Barton had seen in his life; the blond one looked startlingly _young_ for being so solid, the other ginger-haired – judging by his moustache – but Clint couldn’t see much else of his face with his bowler tipped down over his eyes.

Clint nodded, hands gripping the half-door to steady himself as he tried to finish waking. “Yes, ma’am, though I’m not open at the moment.”

“I have something I desperately need to get off my hands before morning, I’m afraid.”

“And I’m not _afraid_ to say I’m closed-” Clint cut himself off as Ginger Whiskers took a step closer.

He could slam the wooden door, but there were four bodies out in that alley, two of them bigger than he was. Clint could hold his own pretty well, and maybe Jess could take a swing or two since she was a punchy drunk, but – _fucking hell_ – it would be him, two drunks – one with a _cane_ – and a grade-school girl with an ant-farm against two walking walls of muscle and two women who – if they hadn’t killed, _yet_ – contemplated it plenty enough. Better to let Miss Pish Posh Pin Curls and her motley mob rob the place than let anyone but him get hurt. Clint fished the key from his pocket, unbolting the metal gate door and stepping aside to let his _guests_ enter.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Barton.”

“Of course.” The brunette, and the redhead trailing beside her, seemed immune to his sarcasm. The man with the hat held the door open with his hip as he and the other man – straining somewhat under the weight – carried in a steamer trunk. Something inside it shifted as he set it down, knocking slightly

“I and my associates intercepted a recent delivery from friends living abroad.” She indicated the box currently resting on his floor.

“I see.”

“We need it looked after for a time, possibly indefinitely.” Whoever she was, she definitely wasn’t from around here. Clint had never been abroad, but he had to think that they had pawn shops back in whatever jolly-ole section of the empire Miss Prissy Proper Pain-in-the-ass had come from. She had to know that they didn’t work that way, right? She smiled up at him, and Clint wondered if this was how pigeons felt when cornered by little children with rocks. “I would be more than happy to pay for any expenses its… _upkeep_ might incur.”

“And I take it this _item_ is in that trunk?” Clint took a step back, toe tapping against the wood of the handled box. He didn’t miss how Blond and Baby-faced almost lunged at him; stopped only by Bowler Hat’s grip on his arm.

“Precisely.”

“Look, ma’am, you seem really… _cultured,”_ Clint shrugged, running his hand through his hair; there wasn’t any subtle way to put this, “but I don’t deal with the mob.”

“Nor do we.” Pant-suit Broad’s clipped accent wasn’t uncommon around here, but it was something he mostly heard from the older folks; she hadn’t been off the boat that long by the sound of it. “We take from them.”

“All we did was get b- get it back.” Blond’s voice – like his face – seemed too young, and he was quickly interrupted by Moustache and Hat. “Your place has a good reputation for helping folks that need it, Mr. Barton. We’ve got the money for a substantial deposit.”

“Timothy…”

“C’mon, Peg, we need his help.” Timothy finally slipped his hat off, revealing ruddy hair a shade lighter than his whiskers, and actually addressing Clint properly. “And the pay would be more than enough to pass his _generous_ spirit along.”

Clint knew it was meant to be a compliment, but it _felt_ like Timothy might’ve just called him a pushover. And – _Fuck it._ – maybe he was. “This whatever it is. It’s not illegal?”

“No.”

“Not gonna explode or anything?” He’d never had it happen, but the Van Dynes over in East Liberty had once taken a clock that wasn’t. Clint couldn’t be too careful. “No fumes or radiation? There’s a kid in the building.”

“It’s perfectly safe and legal.” Asserting herself, again, Peg leant down to pat against the top of the box, looking strangely fond. “It just needs to stay safely out of sight for a while, until we can move it, again.”

“Fine.” Whatever it was they were trying to offload, it was clear these people weren’t going to leave until Clint told them yes. “Let’s open it up.”

“I’m afraid I have to ask that you not do that until morning.” Peg shook her head and reached into her handbag.

“Look, _Ms._ Peg, you may be _afraid_ of a lot, butI-” Clint’s tongue abruptly mutinied as he caught sight of what she had pulled from her purse.

Peg stood in front of him with a stack of twenty-dollar bills in her hand. Enough – by his rough guess – to keep the apartment in heating oil and electricity until April, at least. Maybe enough to replace the old furnace and caulk the windows, if this payment was going to be a regular thing. Clint Barton had a reputation to maintain… but it wasn’t _illegal_ to store somebody’s stuff. And the petite Britt had said _until morning_. Sunrise was in just over three hours. If it was something unsavoury, he could wait until Lang got back, then the two of them could muscle it down to the river and that would be that. Clint nodded stiffly. “If you’ve pulled one over on me, I’m dumping it at dawn, and you’re not getting a refund.”

“I assure you, we’re amenable to those terms.” Money held in her left hand, Peg offered him her right. “If we have a deal, Mr. Barton?”

“Clint.” He stepped toward her and took her hand, giving it a shake as he tried not to imagine that this was what selling his soul might feel like. “And, yeah, we’ve got a deal, Peg.”

“Wonderful. Your first instalment.”

Clint didn’t count the money – he had some standards – but pocketed it in the front pocket of his trousers just in case. “I don’t know that I can get that trunk up to the storage area on my own, so you can leave it there. I’ll have one of my lodgers help me move it up in the morning.”

“Since we have your agreement, I’d like it kept in your personal rooms, Mr. Barton.”

 _Fuck._ “Alright, but uh-” Had she ever said the name of the blond looming behind her like a grumpy puppy? “You; Baby-face. I’ll need help getting it up. And we’ll need to be quiet; it’s three flights and I have tenants.”

Clint grabbed one handle of the trunk, letting the other man take the second, and most of the weight since he was lower on the stairs. They swung past the first floor, where Cassie Lang was – hopefully – still asleep, and mounted the second set of stairs. Clint could hear drunken mumbling, a knocking that could have been a punch, a soft curse from Murdock and a cackling honk that meant he and Jess were still awake and deep down into their cups. They wouldn’t notice a fucking thing until the sunrise came. Clint mounted the last flight of steps, rounding the corner of the bannister and carefully unlocking his room. Lucky blinked up at him from the floor, tail wagging as Clint and Blondie settled the trunk down beside the sitting room radiator.

“You have a dog?”

“Is that going to ruin this precious mystery your broad is saddling me with?”

“Maybe don’t say that where she can hear? Dottie’s the jealous type.” Away from the stoic woman downstairs, the other man seemed almost friendly. A little too twitchy to be all above board, but decent. He smiled nervously, head tilting to the side. “It means a lot, you doin’ this. Thank you, Mr. Barton.”

“Mr. Barton drank himself and my mother off the Liberty Bridge. I’m Clint.”

“Steve Rogers.” Steve wiped his hand on his pants and offered it. “Nice to meet you, Clint. And thank you.”

“I need the money, Steve.” He might be in with a shady crowd, but Clint could say that Steve had an honest handshake at least. “I find out you fucked me over, well… I don’t deal with _those sorts_ of people, but I know folks that do.”

“We’re not. I promise.” With his big earnest smile and guileless puppy-dog eyes, Clint just about believed him.

“Whatever you say.”

By the time he and Steve Rogers – a fake name if there ever was one, but a decent seeming guy nonetheless – got downstairs, Peg and Dottie – helluva name for a woman like _that_ – were already waiting by the backdoor. Steve stepped into the alley ahead of them, and Clint saw him waving back a car. He had to assume Timothy was driving. Once it was back far enough, Steve opened the rear suicide door, handing Dottie in.

Peg turned to offer Clint a smile that – for the first time in the last half hour – didn’t make him want to piss himself. “I think you’ll find our _item_ much less trouble than you imagine, Clint.” She reached for his hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “And thank you.”

Steve assisted her into the low sedan, then shut the door and stepped around to the front passenger side. He gave Clint one last little wave, then he was in the car and it was rolling away, trundling out to turn right onto Sarah Street and motor out of sight.

Clint trudged up the three flights to his bed, hoping to try for a few hours of sleep. _If_ he could get any sharing his rooms with the maybe-the-mob mystery box.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Clint had managed two hours, then dragged himself upright to run the dog out and put his percolator on the stove. The bright Duke beer clock told him it was six-thirty, and he could hear the bustle of shift-workers below him, the _ding-cling_ of the trolley bells as the cars rumbled on the tracks outside. He took a sip of his coffee, eyeing the trunk at his feet. Beside him, Lucky whined softly, tail swishing on the floor as he turned between looking at the wooden box and back up at Clint. His window might’ve faced mostly northward, but he could see the edges of sunrise reflected on the glass of the buildings downtown, watch the moment the sun passed high enough to light the Monongahela afire with a twinkling current.

Clint sighed, giving Lucky’s head a pat, then easing him backwards to sit nearly behind his armchair. He readied the pistol that had lain across his lap for the last hour, holding it secure in his left hand as he unlatched the trunk with his right. Clint wasn’t sure if he was ready for this, but he might as well get it over with. Then he could go back to sleep. “Good morning, little surprise.” Clint lifted the lid and froze.

He blinked, and frightened grey eyes blinked back at him through a mussed fall of brown hair. That pale slate gaze slid from Clint’s face over to the muzzle of his .38, and the man in the box took a sharp intake of breath. He drew his right arm – his _only_ arm – up protectively over his chest. With a nervous smile and a tiny wave, the guy in the trunk nodded, still staring back at him. “Good mornin,’ um… Mr. Barton?”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> Yes, I borrowed Dottie from Agent Carter, and I don’t see enough Dum Dum Dugan in my day-to-day, so he’s here, too.
> 
> I know I never listed a set year, but given that I referenced the Duquesne Beer clock on the Southside, so it’s after 1934?
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> **WinterHawk Bingo:** Noir
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> Oops – look at that – bye-bye one-shot! (I’m certain some of you dear readers expected nothing less.)
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**

Saturday usually made for good business, but the pawnshop didn’t open ‘til noon, so Clint had time. With coffee and fried potatoes, and an egg to split between them, he even had a passable enough breakfast to share with his new guest. Answers, though? Those were slow in coming. Clint glanced across the table, marveling at how a one-armed guy could put away his food at such a break-neck pace and wondering just what he was going to do now.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

“Are you gonna shoot me?” The man squinting nervously up at him kept glancing sideways to the old Luger Clint had never put back up for sale. He forced a thready laugh. “Couldya maybe let me piss first? Save you some cleanup?”

“I’m-” Clint slipped the pistol into the back of his trousers. Whatever the hell this guy was doing in a box, he didn’t seem all that threatening. Surprising – _fuck, yes_ – but not much else besides ballsy and more than a little handsome. “I’m not gonna shoot you. Are you gonna get out of the box?”

“Uh…”

Clint scooted back to sit in the chair, briefly glancing to see Lucky still heeling behind him.

That distance seemed to relax the other man. Righty sat up, stretching and wincing as he unfolded to stand. His brown hair was clipped shorter on the sides and longer up top; it might’ve looked good combed back and pomaded, but – as it was – it made for some awful bedhead. _Trunkhead?_ He wasn’t over-dressed, but the trousers and collared button shirt weren’t made for any kind of line-work. Clint wondered if a guy with one arm had an easier time managing suspenders than a belt.

His guest cleared his throat, shuffling beside his handled overnight lodging. “So, um… ‘s it alright if I use your washroom, Mr. Barton?”

“It’s through there.” Clint settled a hand on Lucky’s collar to keep the dog still, pointing with the other. “Don’t think of going for the window, either. Peg paid good money for me to look after your _upkeep,_ Righty.”

“Yeah, uhh…” Righty took a small step closer, then paused. He pushed his hair back out of his face, where most of it stayed, touched along his collar to flatten it, and vainly tried to beat a few wrinkles out of his shirt. The other man took another half step toward Clint’s chair, lone hand extended. “I’m Bucky Barnes. Thanks for, uh, not shootin’ me, Mr. Barton.”

Clint pushed up to standing. That seemed to be a signal to Lucky – who immediately started sniffing their guest’s ankles – but let him size Bucky up a little better. He was shorter than Clint, and a bit slighter; nowhere near as bulky as Timothy and Steve, but with the same sort of semi-rigid posture. _Serviceman, maybe._ Up close and less frightened, Bucky didn’t look nearly so boyish, either. Clint took his hand; firm and steady. “Clint Barton; no _‘mister.’_ You drink coffee, Bucky?”

“Yessir.”

 _Definitely a serviceman._ “Go take your piss. I’ll pour you a cup.”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

“So what got you in that box, Bucky?”

“Peggy didn’t tell you?”

“Not a damn thing. Who is she, huh? I mean, not your girl, but- sister, maybe?” Judging by the New York accent that clung to Bucky’s words like karo syrup, Clint knew that probably wasn’t the case. “High-brow cousin who’s short a full deck?”

“She’s my boss, in a roundabout sorta way.” Bucky chased a chunk of egg around the plate with his fork before giving up and just grabbing it with his hand.

“And what’s the business?”

“If Peggy didn’t say nothin,’ then I probably oughtn’t either.” The shorter man shrugged, glance skittering away from Clint’s face. 

“Peggy pressed me into taking your trunk at the witching hour with a lot of muscle. You are sitting pretty at _my_ table, drinking my coffee and eating my food. I’m _owed_ an answer, Bucky.”

“She paid you to let me stay, didn’t she?”

“She also said I could toss that trunk and what was in it into the river.” They were at a stalemate; Clint staring down Bucky over the percolator, the other man glowering right back at him. If it came down to it – even if the guy _was_ likely military – Clint trusted himself to be able to handle him, at least to get him to the floor. That, though, would make noise, which would bring people; not the best thing, having to explain to the people in his building why a rumpled looking, one-armed man was hollering in his room. Clint already had to avoid his share of sideways looks.

Bucky saved him the decision by relenting. He snatched up his coffee, gulping it down, then poured another. When he spoke, it was more to the steaming cup than to Clint. “Look, me and Stevie… We signed up together; army. Dum Dum – uh, _Timothy_ – he was in with us. We didn’t have nothin’ much, so three squares and a cot sounded alright. Better than prison if you get to travel.”

Having seen the inside of the Allegheny county jail more than a few times, Clint could agree with some of that. That fort looked pretty from the outside, but it wasn’t all that comfortable. As to the travelling, the Southside was as far east as he’d ever gone, and ever planned to. If Bucky and his crew were anything to go by, Clint could probably count himself smart to have stayed put. Still, he nodded for the other man to continue.

“We got a job as MPs, then assigned to a special case type unit. Oversees; Wales. We were part of a team sitting on this science guy, but plainclothes. Posing as domestics, yeah?” Clint’s guest traced a finger slowly around the rim of his mug, voice lowering as he continued. “Dum Dum drove him around, and Stevie worked in the garden and doin’ maintenance for the house. Peg and Dottie came in from British Intelligence as a governess and, um, calisthenics teacher for the kid and the missus.”

Bucky’s explanation still left a piece missing for Clint. “What about you?”

“Secretary, lackey, gopher; I look good in a suit and I’m not clumsy.”

“Even down a wing?” Clint’s foot kicked him in the teeth before he could think to close his mouth.

“Had ‘em both then, jackass.” Across from him, Bucky set his coffee down long enough to flip Clint off. He scowled away at nothing on the floor, bending to pet Lucky, who had settled on his feet. “To the point, spending all that time with Howie meant I saw stuff, learned about his work an’ all. Meant I was there when he went toes up, too.”

“You weren’t guardin’ him?”

“I was!” Bucky’s hand slammed back onto the table and he sprang to his feet, rattling the breakfast dishes.

Below them, a low grumble echoed up through the floorboard, then a broom handle knocked up against the floor, Jones’ nasally voice barely slurring out _“Shut up, ya jagoff!”_ before Clint heard her shuffle away. He cut his eyes to Bucky, hand over his mouth and head shaking, hoping the other man took the hint to quiet the fuck down.

Bucky nodded, straining an angry whisper when he began again. “I was with him and the kid both. That’s how I lost my goddamn arm, Clint.”

“Sorry, Bucky; go on.”

“So the smoke clears, and folks start pointin’ fingers. Guy was big time in weapons research and sitting on a fortune, right? There’s plenty that mighta wanted ‘im dead. We worked in shifts; it was ten of us on that job. Questions start going around, people askin’ how me an’ the kid made it when Howie and the Missus looked like swiss cheese.” Bucky was resigned as he slumped into the dining chair, once more reaching for Clint’s dog. “Stevie and them were cleared and released on leave beforehand, on accounta bein’ out for a briefing when it happened. Didn’t matter that I lost the arm tryin’ to keep ‘em safe, or that the kiddo vouched for me. By the time I was back in the States and back to my faculties, near everyone ‘cept Stevie’s convinced that – yeah – it was an inside job, but that I was the guy inside.”

That was a hell of a lot to try and choke down with his morning coffee and barely any sleep, “But how does that get all of them on my doorstep with you?”

“This gal in medical, Angie? Well, turns out she’s kinda sweet on Peg, so she got in where they were holdin’ me – I got _shot_ and they cuffed my good arm to the fuckin’ bed, Clint – and she got me out through the mop room window after bed check. They bundled me up and drove out this way, then put me in the trunk outside of town. That’s how I got here.”

“Huh.” Clint stabbed at his last bits of potato in lieu of trying to put together a follow-up to that. He wasn’t supposed let Bucky out of his apartment as the _item_ he was tasked to _upkeep_ – the agreement had been pretty clear that he was to keep the _contents_ of the trunk here with him, and there hadn’t been anything inside except Bucky and an army blanket – but Clint was already seeing some issues with making that work.

The first was that keeping Bucky inside and under watch meant Clint needed to stay in the building himself. With his business on the first floor, it wouldn’t be too hard, but he couldn’t stay inside indefinitely; he had places he was expected to be, and people he could only avoid for so long. The second issue was tied to the first, but a little more immediate. Bucky had been turned out into his care with nothing but the clothes on his back and the sad looking dun army blanket that’d come in his trunk. There was the money – yeah – but cash was made for spending, and that meant leaving; precisely what Clint oughtn’t be doing.

Although he might be able to find someone willing to look the other way and do it for him. For the right price.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

With Bucky hovering behind him, Clint knocked, hoping the woman in the apartment below him hadn’t gone back to sleep. “Jones?”

“Yeah?” She flung her door open as she answered, dark hair draped over one shoulder, flashing bloodshot eyes and a comfortable scowl back at him.

“Where’s Murdock?”

“Probably back in his own bed, but… I can tell you where he _was.”_ She smirked, all teeth and arched brow and menace, and Clint realized Jessica was in Murdock’s shirt, not a nightdress.

He already had enough to clear off his plate without worrying what his resident inebriate was getting up to with her widowed neighbour, as long as they were quiet about it. Lang turned into a ninny when he didn’t get enough sleep, and Luis would spend hours rehashing the overheard details; Clint didn’t need anyone else whining at his door. “Want to earn yourself some of your lodging fees back?”

“I’m listening, but who’s the rent boy?”

“James Buchanan, Miss Jones.” Bucky stuck his hand out for Jessica to shake, which she didn’t.

“Yeah, uh…” That hadn’t been the name he expected. “James had some issues in the service; he’s taking a convalescence in the city.”

“You came _here?”_ She scoffed. “Well, just you wait right there, James. I’m not fit for polite company, so I can only have Clint in.”

Clint was forced to shrug back at the man he was supposed to be watching as Jessica strong-armed him into her apartment. Bucky’s wide, confused grey eyes were the last thing he saw before the door shut and Jessica was up on her toes, words heavy with judgement and last night’s whiskey. “Clint, you’ve let rooms to _that kind_ here before. I’m not putting up with another shell-shocked screwball for a neighbour. Murdock’s bad enough some days; I can’t manage it with another Frank.”

“His money spends as well as anyone else’s, Jess, and he’ll be up on my floor, well away from your debauchery.”

“Oh…” Her casual smirk returned; it wasn’t comforting. “But full witness to yours?”

“It’s a favour for a friend, but she just dumped him on me last night with nothing, not even a change of drawers.” Clint couldn’t rise to her barbs; it could be fun, but he was too tired to manage Jessica for long. “Can you see about getting him some trousers and shirts? And some underclothes; socks and things? He’s not supposed to be out in crowds.”

Jessica looked him over, brows lowered as if she could suss something else out of his explanation. Turning, she looked out through the peephole in her door, then leaned back against it, arms crossed over her chest. 

“I’ll want extra if I’m buying men’s clothes; some of my work depends on fellows thinking they can get with me.” She cut off his protest with a flippant wave, pushing past him, snatching clothes – not all of them hers – as she went. “Commission on your little basket case charity is twenty percent of what I spend, plus my hourly rate.”

Clint didn’t like the idea of her calling Bucky that. He’d only lost an arm, and he didn’t seem nearly crazy enough to put down. _Yet._ Jess did have a point; Mr. Castle had seemed alright for a while, too, and he’d at least had the decency to use the front door and answer the ad. “Twenty percent, plus your _daily_ rate, and a bottle case of Duke if you’re back before I close the shop for dinner.”

He fumbled in his pocket, careful to only slide out two of the bills, handing them over to Jessica.

With more than mild surprise, she took the money – “Whatever you say, boss.” – folding it up to tuck down into her-! Clint looked away; Jessica Jones shoving money in her drawers wasn’t anything he needed to see. It was gone when he looked back up, but Jessica was staring at him, eyes almost concerned. “So you two aren’t? ‘Cause that’s an awful lotta money to drop on a friend that isn’t a _friend,_ Clint.”

“Jess.” While other of his tenants might have guessed at Clint’s preferences, Jessica knew; and, despite appearances, she could be discreet about it, and a good many other things, when she wanted to. With him knocking on her door this early on a Saturday morning, though, she clearly cared less, about both his comfort and his privacy.

“Hey, I don’t care you’re a queer, Barton. I mean, on behalf of the fairer sex, I _might_ protest the loss, but your money spends as good as anyone else’s.” Jess held her hands up in a shrugged surrender, opening her door to shoo him back into the hall. She flipped a wave to Bucky – “Goodbye, Jim.” – and shut her door.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Bucky was waiting right where Clint had left him, right hand behind him and feet just separated at a somewhat off-kilter version of parade rest. Clint patted him on the shoulder, starting up the stairs. “We need to get you back to my place before somebody else sees you. Or _hears_ you, ‘ _James.’”_

“‘s my given name. James, and Bucky from _Buchanan,_ that’s all, but, um…” The minute stutter in his delivery and the softness of Bucky’s voice gave away the nature of his question. “That true? What she said?”

Clint paused, turning on the stairs, knowing the angle wouldn’t hurt the disapproving frown tugging at his lip. “Are we going to have a problem if it is?”

“No!” Flushed, Bucky shook his head jerkily, eyes dropping to his own feet. “Not my business, anyway, and you know about Peg, so… No problems.”

“Good.”

They finished the flight in silence, with no words between them until they were back in Clint’s apartment. Even then, Clint had already cleared away all of the dishes from the drainboard by the time Bucky spoke again. “So, that lady… Miss Jones, she thought…? I mean, is _she_ a rent girl?”

His question caught Clint off guard, but opened the other man up to a bit of ribbing that Clint thought Bucky just might have deserved; or at least that he probably wouldn’t mind. “Her services are for sale to interested clients…”

Clint bit into his cheek, watching his strange new lodger’s face shift from flushed to almost sickly – pale and nauseated – to the point that he looked pitifully sorry for having asked at all. Bucky’s discomfort had nearly gotten to the point where he was squirming when Clint finally relented and offered up the truth. “But hell, no; Jessica isn’t a hooker. She’s a P.I. Sometimes she does some work for me on the side. She pulled my ass out of a trash-fire a few years back, so we’re friends, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Bucky didn’t seem to find his joke all that funny. He sat back in the dining chair, leaning into his left side. “Odd sort of friends.”

“This from the guy who’s buddies sprung him outta lockup in a trunk.” Clint didn’t miss the other man favouring the side where his arm should’ve been. Bucky hadn’t taken the shirt off since he’d gotten out of his trunk, and Clint hadn’t wanted to pry, but if Bucky’s story held any water? Well, that meant he’d only been out of the sickbay for a few hours, and illegally at that. On top of it, Barnes had been crammed into a car, then spent hours in a trunk on Clint’s floor. Even if he was pretty well healed up, it couldn’t’ve been too good for his constitution, let alone his comfort. “You need someone to look at that shoulder of yours?”

Bucky pulled away when Clint reached for his shoulder, hissing softly. “Can’t exactly go into the hospital.”

Keeping Bucky out of sight was a matter of necessity if anyone really was looking for him. _One-armed man_ was enough of a descriptor to make him noticeable, even around here. If it had just been the hand, or maybe even a few fingers, Bucky might’ve been able to pass it off as an accident from working in a mill or down over at the rail yard; but, as near as Clint could see, they’d taken his arm off clean to the shoulder, and _that_ made him stand out, even before anyone heard his accent.

Still, Clint didn’t feel right not offering help for the guy; money or not, Barnes looked to be in a good amount of pain. “I can call someone to come by and look at you?”

“Someone like Miss Jones?”

“Not exactly. I mean, she isn’t all above board as far as some folks measure, but I trust her.” Clint helped him to stand, walking Barnes through to the little room that held his bed. Bucky wouldn’t take his help, toeing his shoes off with a bit of struggle before he laid down. 

“I’m startin’ to think good and legal don’t always go two-by-two, Clint.”

“That they do not.” Clint drew the curtains, leaving Bucky to rest as he went downstairs to make a call. 

**• ↣☆↢ •**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> And, once again, have some Jessica Jones, perpetually inappropriate neighbour. Fret not; the other mentioned disasters will appear at least fleetingly. And – yes – please untwist your knickers; Natasha will be in this fic, just as soon as I write more.
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> **WinterHawk Bingo:** Handcuffs
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> A quick note about language in this fic. I have tagged the fic as having _historical language_. This does mean that certain terms that may no longer in use will be included because they are period appropriate; to be honest, as a fanfic writer of colour, this is something I don’t want to gloss over. I will not, however, be writing anything purposely pejorative or insulting. I’m going to do my best to handle this with tact and respect. (This is probably way more warning than necessary, but I don’t want to be run out on a rail for language, and I know not everyone _reads the warnings_ like maybe they ought to.) 
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Clint felt like he’d barely thanked the operator for the cross-town connection when the phone was cautiously answered. _“Yes?”_

“I need your help.”

_“Do you know what time it is?”_

The shop clock said nine-thirty, and Clint knew how late that was for this kind of request. “I’ve got an emergency that I can’t take out of the building. I wouldn’t call you so late, otherwise.”

_“Is it that widower again? Because I swore off patching him up if he-”_

“It’s,” Clint hesitated. Every person that learned about Bucky was one more that could tie Clint back to him if things went belly up. If it was nothing, he’d be out more of that cash, and maybe not be able to call up this favour for a while; but if it was serious, and he _didn’t_ do anything, he might be stuck with a corpse in his room instead of a criminal tenant. “It’s my newest lodger, just released from surgery. The place they stitched him up is giving him some trouble.”

_“I’ll get my things. Be at the back door.”_

“Thank yo-” Clint heard the receiver click at the other end of the line before he even finished the sentence.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Despite the speed of their conversation, it was another hour before his visitor arrived; _‘emergency’_ was a relative thing when it came to going through so many transit exchanges. If Bucky had been too badly off, the hospital would have been the only option, unless Clint could have pestered one of the Sisters at the women’s home down the street to make a house call… to a one-armed _man_ of questionable origin.

Claire Temple wasn’t nearly so particular, even if she was more furtive. She rapped firmly on the back alleyway door – the same that had brought Bucky to him just hours earlier – two quick knocks sounding just after ten-thirty. Clint bustled her inside, leading her through the shop where the curtains were still drawn and up the stairs.

They were in his apartment before she spoke, surveying the carpet with a relieved little nod. “Well; I _am_ pleased not to be seeing any blood on your floor this time.”

Clint could understand the sentiment; he hadn’t enjoyed that bit with Murdock, either. “I don’t think he’s bleeding.”

“Do you know what happened?” The query came as Claire slid off the scarf she’d wrapped over her kerchiefed hair to keep off the snow, leaving her dark curls loose behind her head, and set it on a chair along with her knitted wool gloves.

Clint took her coat and draped it over the chair as well, but he knew better than to touch Claire’s train case. “He had his left arm amputated. Not sure how long ago.”

Claire Temple’s head snapped as she gaped at him – lips slowly mouthing _‘amputated?’_ – before she was reaching for her case, already striding for the kitchen. “And for what _possible_ reason is this man staying with you?”

“I’m watching him? For a friend?” Clint caught up to her, positioning himself between Claire and the tiny hall that led to the washroom and his bedroom. “He just said he was a little sore, that’s all.”

“I need to see him.” Claire was one of the few women Clint knew that could make even the largest person feel very small, even whilst looking up at them. He heard the click of her shoe on his floor. “Who took him out of the hospital and brought him to _you?”_

“A _friend.”_

“Clint…”

“I need you to keep this under your hat, Claire.”

“All the things I keep mum? There isn’t a hat big enough.” Her laugh was strained, tired like her smile. “But you know I will, only let me through to him.”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Bucky blinked awake, staring up into scrupulous brown eyes peering at him from beneath a starched, low-tucked kerchief. _Fuck!_ “Who the hell?” Had the army gotten him back? Had Peg and them never gotten him out? Had the whole thing with Clint-?

“Easy, Bucky.” Clint’s hands were on him, one holding his right arm, the other pushing down across his middle, and it was only now that Bucky realized his shirt was off. “Take it easy…”

The woman who’d been standing over him now stood a few feet away, jaw set; angry, not scared. “I didn’t bring anything strong enough for _that._ He takes another swing at me-”

“I’m sorry, Claire. He’s confused, and I don’t think he’s slept in a day or so.” Clint kept hold of him, wordlessly urging him to lie back down.

Bucky finally calmed himself enough to look at the woman – _Claire_ – standing near the bedside. She wore a boxy white coat, though he could see a hint of blue wool peeking from beneath the long hem; there was an understated gravitas about her that left Bucky well aware of the mistake he’d just made. “Doctor? I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

She considered him a moment, uncrossing her arms and wagging a finger at him. “You behave yourself, or you’ll hurt worse.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Claire nodded, and Clint finally let go of him, hovering at his right, but leaving Bucky to lie back down. The woman in the white coat retook her position sitting at his bedside. Her fingers were gentle as they prodded the area around his shoulder. She was thorough, but not rough; Bucky had been expecting this to hurt a hell of a lot more. She slid her hand beneath his shoulder blade, urging him to roll onto his right side, supporting him a bit with her other hand until Clint grabbed hold of him again. “And I’m not a doctor.”

“You could be.” And a damn sight better at it than the ones he’d woken up to after the attack, who seemed to think that him being groggy meant that Bucky couldn’t also be in a world of pain.

“Maybe I could, but I’m not, and I won’t take the title. I’m Claire Temple; I’m a nurse. Can you tell me your name?”

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes, ma’am.”

“Mmm.” Claire hummed, and Clint let him roll onto his back again. The nurse moved down from his shoulder, hands skimming along his side. “What happened to put you in this state, hmm, Mr. Barnes?”

“Work.” Bucky hoped that would be enough of an explanation. “Got shot a coupl’a times, Nurse Temple.”

She ran a finger over the newly healed bullet wound just below his waist. “That what gave you this little hole in your side, too?”

“Yes, ma’am.” With all the fuss and pain from his now missing arm, Bucky had nearly forgotten it was there.

Nurse Temple leaned away from him, reaching into a train case that hadn’t been on the nightstand when Bucky had laid down, tugging out a steno pad and the stub of a pencil. “Can you tell me when this happened, Mr. Barnes?”

“December nineteenth, ma’am.”

She nodded, scribbling. “And do you know who shot you?”

Bucky glanced back at Clint. He wasn’t sure if he should answer, or how, and he honestly didn’t know; Clint shrugged back to him, so Bucky went with that. “Um… No, I don’t… I was outta town, ma’am.”

“You don’t need to keep adding that end bit.”

“Just good manners, Nurse Temple.”

“Suppose it is.” She put her little tablet away. “Not very used to it; not from men like you.” 

“That’s a shame, ma’am.”

“Well…” Nurse Temple sighed out through her nose, then turned back to face him fully, hands clasped over her lap. “For eight weeks, you’re healing up quite nicely. There doesn’t seem to be any infection at either wound. The gunshot is well closed, and your shoulder is scarring up decently enough. Some bed rest and basic care ought to get you feeling right again – providing you keep the area clean – and maybe I can get something, so you’re feeling less of that pain.”

“Thank you, Nurse Temple.”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Claire drew the bedroom door closed, joining Clint at the table in his kitchen. “I got him back in his shirt and gave him a little something for the shoulder. He can have another dose in four hours. It’s just laudanum.”

“That shit tastes awful.” Clint handed her the glass of milk he’d poured for her; he’d usually have offered coffee, but Claire needed to sleep some time before her shift this evening.

“Hopefully _that_ means he won’t get up to trouble taking too much of it. Keep him in bed as much as you can for a week and on that for no more than a few days if he can stand it.” Claire pulled out her steno pad and pencil again. “How’s he eating? Keeping his meals down?”

“He got here this morning in time for breakfast; he managed coffee, potato, and some egg.”

“See if you can’t get him some meat, but no heavy cuts; don’t want him bringing up something too rich.” She stood and slid off the white overcoat, folding it carefully before tucking it back in the bottom of her train case. Unlike the last few times she’d graced his building with her skills, Claire hadn’t needed it to protect her clothes.

Still, Clint new how much trouble it was for her to come all this way; not just managing the distance, but all the hassle a woman who looked like Claire might get from crossing town to come here. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that she’d come alone. “Thank you, Claire.”

“Don’t thank me. That man in there should still be in a hospital bed.”

How did she always manage to make it sound like she was scolding him? And why did Clint always feel like he ought to shuffle his way to stand in the corner when she did? “I’m not the person that pulled him out of the one he was in.”

“You better not have gotten yourself mixed up in something bad again, Barton. Because if anybody asks me, I d-”

Clint cut her off; this was a speech he’d heard more than a few times. “You don’t know me.”

“No, I certainly do not.” With a decisive nod, Claire walked to poke her head back into the bedroom, quietly asking, “Mr. Barnes? How’s that feeling for you?”

“It’s kinda gettin’ soft-like?” Bucky murmured blearily from his sprawl on Clint’s bed. “Thank you for stoppin’ in to have a look at me, doctor.”

“You sleep now, Mr. Barnes.” Clint could see her roll her eyes, but Claire’s smile was indulgent as she answered. She turned back to him, taking her coat, gloves, and kerchief. “Take care of yourself, Clint.”

“I’ll try.” Clint knew better than to promise her that he _would_ ; Claire’d bring it up first thing the next time he got hurt and had to call her again. “Let me walk you down.”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Claire hardly ever let him pay her for anything but the supplies she used and her transit fare, but Clint had taken care to slip a good deal more than that into the lining pocket of her coat. She did good work for good reasons; it was the least _he_ could do.

Bucky was awake enough to hear him when he got back to the apartment. Clint heard a muffled attempt at his name, and walked back to the bedroom, perching at the bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Better… Loads better…” mumbled the man tucked beneath his quilt. “Never had a coloured lady doctor before…She… is a real good doctor.”

“When folks deserve it.” Claire never refused somebody aid, but she wasn’t nearly so pleasant with everyone; especially not repeat patients that ought to know better.

“Mmm…” Bucky blinked up at him, eyes slipping dazedly away from Clint’s face. He tried to reach to the side then – as if only just realizing that he didn’t have an arm there – Bucky nodded toward the frames on the nightstand. “Whozzat?”

There were several _whos_ that Bucky might have been referencing. Clint set his hand on the nicest frame – leafed in silver – and tipped it up for Bucky to see. “This is my mother.”

“Oh? You got her smile, but… but I wanna know whozzat? The pretty one.”

Given that one of the remaining two other pictures was of him and Barn – neither of whom Clint thought warranted being called _pretty,_ regardless of the state of the person speaking – Clint knew exactly who Bucky was referencing. This picture was the newest; they’d sat for it at New Year’s. “That’s my friend, Nat.”

Bucky’s grin widened lopsidedly as he nodded his head on the pillow. “She’s a looker. “

“Mmhmm…” Clint didn’t have the heart to tell the dazed man in his bed that Bucky had a much better chance with Clint than he’d _ever_ have with Natasha. He set the picture back down. “Her hair’s red, though; not brown like it looks.”

“Wow… You sure know a lot of pretty ladies.” Bucky made a sound that was part sigh and part snort, followed by a slow, huffing sort of giggle.

“Oh?”

“It’s funny is all.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded so quickly that it seemed he made himself dizzy for a spell. He drifted, grey eyes tracking slowly around the room before his unfocused stare landed back on Clint. He resumed speaking slowly, a noticeable slur drawing out some of his words. “She’s a might unhinged, but Miss Jones all but said she'd have a night with ya.’ An’ you know a lady doctor that’s awful nice makin’ a house call an’ such, and she smiles sweet even if she was mad. And your friend there looks like an actress; prettier than Paulette Goddard…” Bucky shrugged again. “Just funny…”

“She’d rather look like Marlene…” _Or be,_ but again, that was on a need to know basis, and not Clint’s laundry to air.

“Hmm…” Bucky was probably aiming for considering or thoughtful, but his expression went to something closer to a pout. “Yeah? I betcha you could go with your friend there, if you asked. She’d tell ya’ yes.”

Oh, ‘Tasha would always go out with him, that was for sure; neither of them would _ever_ go _home_ with one another, but they knew how to keep up appearances. Clint chuckled, smoothing some of the blankets Bucky had tossed off with all of his jerky nodding. “Yeah?”

“Handsome guy like you? Yeah. Bet she would.” With the way Bucky was beaming up at him, Clint had to wonder if maybe Claire hadn’t slipped him a heavier than necessary dose; his guest was going a touch loopy, and he was still jawing. “But I guess you wouldn’t be askin’ her, huh? Or Dr. Claire or Miss Jones neither?”

“No.”

“But that’s what makes it funny, see? You bein’… bein’ like ya’ are, and all these real swell lookin’ ladies you know.” Bucky nodded, then shrugged, then shook his head in a negative as his giggle-induced grin slid into something more pensive. “Yer, umm… yer fellow ain’t gonna be mad ‘m stayin’ here, is he? I don’t wanna make it rough for ya,’ or get punched over it again.”

“No.” Clint hadn’t had anyone in a while. He wasn’t sure what to make of the _again_ bit of that comment, but he’d let it lie for now; Bucky was near out of his head, after all. “No _fellow_ to make mad.”

“Me neither… Nobody to get hot over it.” Bucky Barnes was pouting when his grey eyes met Clint’s. “That’s a shame, though. You’re a catch.”

“Whatever you say, Bucky.”

“I say _‘you’re a catch.’”_

Clint shook his head, lifting the blankets to tuck under Bucky’s chin. “You ought to sleep now. And I have to get down to my shop. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Vest buttoned over his shirt and suspenders, Clint ambled down the stairs, stretching before he opened the curtains at the front of the shop onto a familiar pale face, framed by wisps of flaming red hair. Clint unlocked the front door; the bell above it tinkled as Natasha entered, trailing cold air behind her. “You’re opening late today, my little bird.”

“I had a late sale last night, spider.” Clint moved on to the other windows, drawing back and tying the drapery, making sure the polished merchandise he kept front and centre was easily seen from the street. “After hours.”

‘Tasha trailed after him, making tiny adjustments to each piece, moving them in some manner that seemed to suit her, and also seemed to be the trick to getting things to sell faster; she’d once told him it wasn’t magic, but Clint wasn’t sure if he believed her. “You charged a better than usual price?”

“Top dollar; worth it in the long run.” So long as money and the occasional visit from their favourite night nurse was the only thing that kept coming while Bucky was with him. Clint sighed out a yawn, and Natasha rubbed a hand down his back, clicking her tongue.

“Good money, but it has left you too tired for today.” She slid in against his side to squeeze him in a hug. “Although, in looking, everything is still here, Clint.”

“Private storage, private sale.” Clint straightened, returning the light embrace before going back to make sure the counter was in order if he got a sale. “You know I never keep the best stuff on the floor.”

“Mm… I do. But we can discuss this later.” Natasha nodded, and things were quiet for a time; Clint puttering around, checking the till and lockbox while ‘Tasha hung up her coat and resettled the long sleeves of her blouse, hiding the intricate black designs inked onto her arms. She perched a moment on the stool that he kept by the radiator for her, feet on the fender and chin in her hands. “For now, fun. You will come out to dance with me on Monday? Wanda is coming; she’s bringing her brother again.”

“I don’t think I can, Natasha.” Clint usually opened later during the week – with plenty of time to rest after one of their little nights out – so he could understand Natasha asking – but there was no way he could agree to go. Three days was hardly the _week_ that Claire had suggested Clint keep Bucky resting. It would take Clint at least until Tuesday to get a better feel for what the man upstairs was capable of; Clint wasn’t sure what Bucky could even do in his state beyond using the commode. Could he feed and look after himself for hours if Clint was gone? What if the dog needed a walk? Honestly, maybe Clint ought to let Lucky stay down with the Langs. Or Luis; he loved dogs.

Natasha’s light touch against the inside of his arm pulled him from his thoughts. “Clint…” She even managed to whine prettily, fluttering curled lashes over big green eyes; it was really quite unfair. “You must. It’s ages – _ages_ – since you’ve gone out with me; Darcy is missing you, too!”

Clint huffed. “She likes me about as much as she’d like a canker.”

“No!” ‘Tasha leant in closer, head tipping onto his shoulder. “Darcy only doesn’t understand how we are so unguarded with each other.”

Few people did, and that was usually fine with Clint, notwithstanding the times Natasha’s long-time lover took exception to him; Miss Lewis was not always so very civil. “I’m not dancing with you to make her jealous, Nat.”

“Of course not; you will dance with her also.” She bumped his shoulder, then pulled herself up straight, striking a classical dancer’s pose. Natasha winked and slowly twirled to the other side of the shop before spinning her way back to grin at him. “Perhaps you will teach her not to step on my feet?”

“Perhaps _you_ will dance with her and teach her because _I_ cannot go.” Clint tapped the end of her upturned nose, then pulled away to rearrange the watch case.

“It is only _dancing,_ Clint,” by the reflection he could see in the glass of his counter, Natasha was draping herself over the front case. _“But,_ if the mood is right, perhaps you share a beer? Perhaps a bed? You need not bring him home; there are places I know.” Her voice was sing-songy, taunting as she poked at his hip. “And _you_ know also.”

Clint felt her swat at him and sighed. “Natasha.” He wasn’t going to get any work done if she kept weedling at him about this. Clint stood, turning to slump into his back lock-case, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked back down at her.

“Clint. Please? I will owe the biggest favour?” Even with him as far away from her as possible, it didn’t help; Natasha slipped beneath the lifting section of the counter, sidling up against him. “He’s handsome, good at dancing; he is _tall.”_

“I remember Pietro, and…” The guy was hard to forget. He _was_ tall, and a very good dancer; he certainly was easy on the eyes, and on other things, so long as they weren’t Clint’s ears. There were few times Clint was grateful for his one-sided hearing loss, but sitting the elder Maximoff on his left had been the only way he’d managed the less private portions of their last outing, and – even privately – Pietro never seemed to shut his gob. He spoke more than anyone Clint had ever met, aside from the cheerfully loquacious man living on his second floor. Though at least Luis didn’t constantly _complain!_

But Pietro’s sister Wanda worked with Natasha, and ‘Tasha was nearly his only family and-

 _“‘And?’”_ Natasha stroked down his arm.

 _“‘And’_ I will consider it.”

 _“You_ will come.” Nat actually stamped her foot as she answered. “I have decided already.”

“‘Tasha…” Clint plucked her from where she’d nearly grafted onto him like a limpet, lifting the petite woman up onto the counter and leaving her there as he stepped back. “I will think long and hard about it.”

She spun to the other side of the counter, skirt lifting to flash a tattooed line of calf through her stockings before she hopped back onto the floor. “The thinking should be quick and simple; the long and hard? That should be shared after you dance.”

“You’re a regular menace.” There was no managing the petite Russian woman staring back at Clint over the counter. He’d just have to try and work around her. “I’ve got to rearrange more; make it look like I _have_ gotten a few new things in. If you’re staying, you need to help me.”

“Mmm… It is too bad then that I must go.” Natasha plucked her coat off the rack, shrugging into it with a wink. “Monday; the car will be at Becks Run, and you _will_ be there.”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> Give yourself a point if you guessed Claire. (This is fanfic, and the points don’t matter, but you should feel proud of yourself, anyway!) And – look at that – I wrote more, and Natasha was in it. Yes, I promise Matt will show up at some point as more than a low-key callout by other characters… _eventually._
> 
> Also, for those of you that are surprised by the disaster that is Bucky Barnes on drugs; clearly, you have much to learn, m’dears.
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> **WinterHawk Bingo:** Free Space
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**


	4. Chapter 4

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Unlike his host, Bucky had always been an early riser. Granted, his work hadn’t usually kept him up until the true end of the day the way Clint’s hours sometimes ran; back in the service, it had always been the overnight duties that were the hardest for him. As it was, Bucky found himself once more slipping out of bed a good half hour before sunrise, padding quietly out of Clint’s bedroom and through the kitchen to peer into the parlour.

Clint was curled on his right side, face turned in toward the back of his settee, dog wedged behind his knees. Lucky lifted his head in acknowledgement, then laid back down.

Bucky slipped back into the washroom, closing the door behind him as he started the tap running. Washing up and using the facilities was still tricky – he couldn’t even manage his hair on his own – and the room was cramped. Though, as he’d learned after the first day, the small washroom was actually useful; it meant Bucky could brace against a wall more easily when – not _if_ – he overbalanced or wobbled. Bucky splashed the just above freezing water onto his face, blinking back at his reflection, brain still working to make sense of it.

They hadn’t bothered to let him out of a hospital bed before Stevie and the rest had sprung him, and, even looking down, it was hard to see just how much of him was gone without a mirror. Now, though, Bucky could get a better view, turn and twist to see the extent of his loss. _Survey the damages._ He might not’ve taken to the poetry and art classes like Stevie had back in school, but he knew his sciences; he’d liked anatomy way back when. Whoever had done the cutting had decided to take the whole long bone all the way up, not even leaving him with a stump to waggle around. There was a divot below his shoulder; as if the limb had just been popped out like the thigh off of a roasting bird, as if something was meant to slot back in there. _My damn arm, that’s what._

Nurse Temple had been right about the scarring at least. It wasn’t as bad as it might’ve been, though it looked like someone had run a few zip-fasteners over the end of his shoulder. _Might’ve zipped it off instead of cutting._ Bucky shook his head, finishing up his morning wash, grateful for a very different zip when he was back in the bedroom. She might be a character, but Miss Jones had come through not only with clothes that fit him, but ones that Bucky could just about _wear;_ zip closure pants and suspenders were simple to get on, and his socks he could do one-handed. While it was hard going to tuck in properly, Bucky had at least sorted out getting his undershirt on. So long as he could get his right arm through the sleeve hole, getting it over his head and pulled down was only tedious, but not impossible. The button-up would mean waiting for Clint, but at least Bucky didn’t have to go naked if he was left to his own devices; or – _worse_ – in one of those backless gowns.

Bucky made his way back to the kitchen, starting the coffee and looking out onto the darkened back alley below the window. Odd; to think he’d been down there in the back of that trunk not three days ago. He poured himself a cup, picking up the evening edition that Clint had been reading the night before. Paper under his arm and mug in hand, Bucky slipped back to the bedroom, not wanting to disturb his host by turning on the main kitchen light.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Bucky sputtered into the sink, head shaking as Clint leant in with the towel, trying to keep his wet hair from dripping everywhere. It took the poor guy long enough to get ready; Bucky shouldn’t have to change his clothes again after all that. Clint scrubbed the terry cloth over his secret lodger’s head a few times, then stepped back. “Feel better?”

“Yeah, but now I look like I got caught out in a tornado, Clint.” Bucky huffed back at him before turning his grumpy reflection to the mirror. Clint watched him fumble the comb, then snatch it from the basin. Bucky wobbled, leaning forward a bit, hip knocking the sink before he found his balance. He combed his hair back until the damp strands stayed. “Better.”

 _Much,_ supplied Clint’s unhelpful brain. In the three days since Claire’s visit, Bucky had made strides; he had gotten to where he could just about dress himself, and the shoulder pain hadn’t come back nearly so often or half so badly as it had that first day. They’d both agreed that it had probably been the fault of Bucky twisting himself up like a pretzel to fit into that damn trunk. Bed rest had pretty much done the trick.

Leaving Bucky alone in his apartment wasn’t something he was sure he was ready for today, but at least Bucky was quiet. Jess knew he was there, and she was the only one that might have heard him padding around while Clint was downstairs in the shop. Plus, she’d come through with actual clothes for him instead of just telling Clint to keep the change and go fuck himself, so he was pretty certain Jess would come up to check if it sounded like Bucky had fallen over or something; provided that she didn’t decide to actually go down to her little hidey-hole of an office. Jessica Jones wasn’t that much smaller than Bucky and – even if Barnes was a little bulkier – Clint had a feeling Jess could manhandle him upright pretty easily. She was frightfully strong when she put her mind to it.

At the rate he seemed to be improving, though, Bucky would be well enough for most of the things he might do on his own in pretty short order. Once he was alright on his own, Clint might be able to clear out some of the storage space for him to use as lodging. It had been sitting crammed full of odds and ends for near on ten years; even clearing the parlour would give Bucky some space of his own in time for spring. _If he stays that long._ Not to mention that opening up that room would mean telling Murdock that Bucky was up here; there was no way Matthew wasn’t going to notice someone walking around over his head, no matter how quiet Bucky seemed to be.

“... irt?”

“Pardon?” Clint blinked his way back from his thoughtful daze, shifting his attention to his guest.

“Couldya pass me my shirt?” Pants still only half-zipped, and clad in his undershirt, Bucky held out his hand. “I wanna see what I can do on my own today.”

Clint handed it over, trying to watch without staring as Bucky wormed his arm into the right sleeve. It was difficult, and not just from Bucky’s end, either. Missing arm or not, Barnes was a good-looking guy; fit despite spending two months out of commission, with a wicked little smile and those pretty grey eyes of his. Clint wouldn’t ever want to take advantage of the guy – hell, he wasn’t even sure if Barnes would accept those sorts of advances – but, even frustrated and huffing his way to half-dressed, Bucky was awfully tempting. Clint was so focused on Bucky that he forgot to think about him before asking, “Need a hand?” 

“You got a spare ‘round here?” Bucky groused back at him. He’d gotten the shirt up his arm and around his back, but he was having trouble keeping it closed to get it buttoned. Bucky sighed, turning to face Clint, shirt still hanging open. “If you would?”

“Of course.” Bending to do up Bucky’s buttons was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Clint had to duck, which meant he was below Bucky’s sightline, so the other man wouldn’t catch him staring. But, conversely, it put him close enough to feel the heat of Bucky’s skin through his shirt and underclothes, and for Clint to brush the back of his hand against him a few times. It also gave him a prime view when Bucky winced as he shifted away to tuck his shirt in and shrug up his suspenders. “I saw that.”

“I’m fine.” Bucky slid past him, heading for the kitchen. “Just gimme an aspirin?”

“You need to rest and not strain.” Pleasant as he might be to look at, Clint had spent the last few days realizing Bucky was a terrible patient. He grabbed the little glass bottle from his bathroom cabinet, following after the shorter man. “Claire’ll gut me like a fish if I call her to come back for you so soon.” He grabbed a spoon from the drainboard, unscrewing the bottle and doing his best to hold it and the spoon while cornering Bucky by the sink. “This’ll help with the resting part.”

Unable to cross his arms – since that would have required a pair – Bucky seemed to have started resting his right hand above the pant catch of his left-front suspender; it had a similar effect, at least, but left Clint wondering just how frequently Barnes must have locked his arms when he still had both. “I don’t enjoy not bein’ in control of my faculties, Clint.”

“I know. But I’ve got to run to the bank and green grocer before opening, and you ought to sleep.” Clint let his tone drift closer to a whine. “Please, Bucky?”

“Alright, I’ll take the damn stuff.” Bucky stayed leaning where he was, but – when Clint had poured out a spoonful of the tincture for him – he at least opened his mouth and took the medicine. Barnes’ face pulled into a pinched grimace at the taste.

Clint was busy rinsing the spoon and getting him a glass of water when Bucky piped up behind him.

“Are you Russian?”

That had come out of nowhere, and left Clint unsure of how to tackle the question. “My family name is _‘Barton,’_ and the dosage should not be hitting you this quickly, Bucky.”

“Are you?” Bucky took the water, but kept those curious grey eyes focused on Clint as he drank it.

“Why?”

He tipped his chin toward Clint’s left arm. “That tattoo; the letters look Russian.” 

“How would you know?”

“Dottie sure as fuck ain’t English, no matter what her passport says.” He shrugged, still pushing about the ink on Clint’s arm. “Is it an eagle?”

Clint wasn’t sure why Bucky was so interested, other than the novelty. He barely even thought about the bird inscribed on the inside of his left arm, bared when he’d pushed up his sleeves to keep them from getting wet. The barred and masked goshawk was in mid-flight, a piece of spider webbing clutched in its talons, _ЯСТРЕБ_ written in looping script below it. Natasha had let him choose the design but insisted on the words and the webbing. After so many years, Clint often forgot about it unless it was pointed out to him. “It’s a hawk and – yeah – _it_ _is_ a Russian tattoo. I mean, it was a Russian who put it there.”

“You been to Russia?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” Bucky refilled his glass, ambling to sit in one of the dining chairs. “Then how’dya get it?”

“You aren’t the first package I’ve accepted for-” How had Peg phrased it when she offered him that trunk? _“‘Friends living abroad,’_ let’s say?”

“You move folks on the regular?”

“Two in ten years isn’t regular.” Now was as good a time as any to change the subject. Clint didn’t smuggle _anything_ anymore; the amendment in ‘33 had pretty much ended that, though Barney going away had all but sealed the deal years earlier. There was no point in Clint bringing up his less than legitimate past, even to the guy that might have dragged it to the forefront just by being here. “Are you hungry? You want to eat before you go too loopy?”

“Not really… ‘m alright.” He caught Bucky’s nervous shrug from the corner of his eye. “I know I inconvenienced you earlier. And that I’m still doin’ it now. I oughtta… I wanna apologize for that.”

“I’d be more upset that those friends of yours didn’t let you stay on in a real hospital; this isn’t exactly the best convalescent ward. Claire said you should be right by the end of the week.” Clint had the presence of mind to wipe his hands on the dish towel instead of his pants before he turned to face his current flatmate. “To be honest, I could probably close up shop and nursemaid you full time for a few _months_ before your lodging fee ran dry.”

“You shouldn’t hafta-”

“I won’t. It would draw looks if my shop was suddenly closed all the time.” As nice as it might be to lock the place up and enjoy a reprieve, there wasn’t anyone who knew him that wouldn’t wonder at it if he shuttered his doors without notice. Clint hadn’t always done legitimate business, but – barring a few injuries that meant he had to lay up in his apartment, and that one stint in lockup – there hadn’t ever been a time when he wasn’t working. A day or two he might be able to blame on feeling under the weather, but any more than that would bring trouble.

“So, I just keep stayin’ here while you’re out?” Bucky stood, leaving his glass as he paced toward the settee in the living room. “It’s kinda boring when I’m not under. I know I can’t have the radio on, but have you got a book or somethin’ I could read?”

“Paper comes Friday and Sunday.” Though by the way Sunday’s edition had been crookedly refolded when he got up this morning, Clint had a feeling Bucky had already read that. He really didn’t have much in the way of books. He had his paper, and sometimes he’d borrow a pulp paperback off of Luis if he wanted something to distract himself when the shop was empty, but – even down an ear – Clint had a preference for radio dramas. Though, like Bucky had pointed out, that wouldn’t be something his secret lodger could enjoy when no one was supposed to be in the apartment. There were two books still up in the closet; they weren’t completely Clint’s, but he could still offer them for Bucky to read. “Would you like _The History of the Crimean War_ or _Archery Across the Ages?”_

“Archery?”

“You got it.” The book was on the highest shelf of Clint’s meagre closet, dog eared and well-loved. He and Barney had poured over it as kids, before Barney had shipped out, and it held some good memories.

Bucky was waiting behind him when Clint turned around, looking back from the bedroom doorway. “Why archery?”

“My brother and I used to do it.” Clint still had his bow in the storage apartment across the hall. Maybe Bucky might want to see- _Nah,_ probably not the best hobby to show off to a guy who’d only be able to stand and watch. Clint set it on the nightstand, careful not to offer help as Bucky scooted up onto the bed; the other man would only grumble about it, anyway.

Bucky grabbed the book, setting it on his lap, but reaching back for one of the frames on the bedside table. “Is he the one with you in this picture? Your brother, I mean?”

“Yup.” It wasn’t a recent photograph, but Clint was still pretty recognizable in it. He’d been tall even then, though he hadn’t quite hit the growth spurt that might have gotten him a uniform to match the one his brother had worn for the picture. Barney had lied about his age to ship out, but – especially with his height – he could pass for a baby-faced eighteen. Clint had _tried_ , but he’d been thirteen and looked it, so there’d been nothing for him to do but stay on his own back here while Barney’d been gone. His brother had returned, of course, but not like he’d left.

“Does he work with you in the shop?”

“He used to.” The storage room _had_ been Barn’s old apartment; Clint found it easier to just keep shoving shit into it than to rent it out when it had come time for his brother to go away. “He’s up at Dixmont State now.”

“Oh.” Bucky set the picture down, head tilted in question. “Isn’t he a little, I dunno, old to be going off to school?” 

“Dixmont State Hospital.” It wasn’t like Clint could’ve afforded to send him somewhere private, and any of those places would be well outside of the city. As it was, at least his brother was close by, and – _hell_ – Clint had seen his room; Barney had a great view of the traffic on the river. He seemed to like that, as much as he could still like anything. “Barney… he’s not right anymore. We used to go out bow hunting together, that’s all. “

“So now you don’t? ‘Cause your brother, uh…?” Bucky left the sentence to hang in the air between them.

“Went barmy and thinks he’s Robin Hood? Yeah, pretty much.”

“Robin Hood?”

“Well, _Trickshot_ , he says.” Clint shrugged. There really wasn’t much else to say about Barney. Clint patted Bucky’s leg, nodding back over his shoulder toward the bedroom door. “That stuff ought to kick in for you soon. You need anything before I go?”

“Naw. I think I’ll be alright.”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Monday had come and gone without Clint going anywhere after his morning errands except up to check on Bucky every few hours. Tuesday had been quiet as well; he’d made a few sales but had gotten a tension headache from staying on vigilant alert, waiting all day for a Russian whirlwind to come battering into his shop in a flurry of crimson hair and cursing. His guest might be on the mend – even going so far as to start making the morning coffee and trying to tidy things up a bit from the mess Clint often let his place fall into – but Clint was starting to unravel. He’d nearly jumped out of his skin when the door flung inward just after opening on Wednesday.

To his relief, it had only been his postman with a card; someone had arranged a call – long distance and from New York of all places – for him on Thursday morning. Which meant that Clint had been up early again today to make sure he was there on time.

He hadn’t told Bucky _why_ he was going, but he hoped it was some update from the rest of his crew. _Unit, really._ It meant bundling into his real coat and slogging all the way up Carson – which Clint really could have done without; kept the sooty snow off his coat and out of his eyes – but there was nowhere else to get a long-distance call besides there or the Western Union office. The instructions on his little postcard had been clear: Clint was to be at his post office, ready to accept a call and the charges for it, at nine in the morning. He hoped it wouldn’t take too long. He was due to open at ten, and he’d had two days without a visit – an _attack_ – from Natasha after skipping out on her; with his luck, she’d be there waiting for him, or trying to open up herself and come _find_ him if he wasn’t behind the counter right at ten.

Clint sighed, pushing through the rotating door and heading for the long-distance phone room along the far wall. He smiled at the postman waiting for him by the booth as he slid off his hat. He’d been there since Clint had first come to the city, and he’d looked ancient just as long; Clint sometimes wondered if he’d died and just kept haunting the building, since he always seemed to be around, no matter when Clint came in. “Good morning, Stan.”

The old man nodded a greeting, but went straight to the point with his question. “You’ve got that nine o’clock call this morning?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Must be mighty important, coming from…” Stan squinted down at Clint’s notice card. “New York? Huh.” Stan opened the booth door, waving Clint in. “Now, this thing is cork-lined, but you might have to yell. East coast is awfully far. Signal doesn’t carry too good.”

“Right.” The room Clint slipped into was tiny; cramped, with a low ceiling that nearly bumped his head and the smallest excuse for a bench on which he’d ever had the misfortune to sit. There was a phone mounted on the wall, and a ledge beneath it with a tiny stub of a pencil and a steno pad. Clint perched on the tiny bench, knees nearly at his shoulders, until the phone rang. “Hello?”

The operator’s voice was high and nasally, and, between her accent and the stuttering pops in the line, Clint had to strain to hear her. _“Call from New York City for Mister Clinton Barton from Mister Roger Dugan? Will you accept the charges?”_

“Yes, I’ll accept.” Roger Dugan sounded like an awful name, and put Clint in the awkward position of having to guess which of the two men he assumed was calling would actually be on the line.

“Hello?” The hiss was heavy on the other end, a man’s voice barely audible for the first moments, until the person calling him started yelling. 

_“Clint! Can you hear me?!”_ Baby Face – _Steve –_ shouted his question down the line. 

“Yes.”

“ _What?!”_

“Yes! I can hear you!” Barely, even with the phone cradled against his good ear. “Why’re you in New York?!”

_“Couldn’t head back to Erie! We dropped the ladies off for home yesterday!”_

That implied Peg and Dottie were going back to the scene. Bucky had been a little sparse on the details, but the murder of Howard Stark had made the press, and it didn’t take a genius to put Bucky’s story and the bits in the papers together. A good thing, too, since Clint knew he wasn’t always the sharpest tack in the box; luckily, it seemed like Steve was trying to keep things subtle but simple. Clint could appreciate that. Although, unless he was talking about some other _ladies_ , that meant half of the crew that had dropped Barnes off was sailing for England. That would be a hell of a trip – nearly a week each way – and meant that Bucky would be staying on for the foreseeable future. “Hope they make it alright, then!”

 _“They might have found the problem!”_ Steve trailed off, and for a moment, Clint was concerned that the connection had gone bad. _“Wanted you to tell Leftie that we think rummy got played that night!”_

“Cards?!”

_“Yeah! Rummy!”_

The game itself seemed important, so Clint snatched up the tiny pencil and scribbled it down. “Got it!”

_“Great! The weather outlook is still bad, so stay inside and keep the package dry!”_

“Will do!” Keep making sure Bucky was out of sight; Clint could do that. “Stay safe!”

 _“Wait!”_ Steve’s shouted response cut him off. _“There’s a package coming in for you. Be sure to tip your postman! Goodbye!”_

“Goodbye!”

The line disconnected back to the operator, who told him the charges he’d need to pay once he left the booth. Clint had more than enough money to cover it, and to tip his postman, but he sat for a moment in the now quiet booth to think. He wasn’t sure what the next package coming from Bucky’s crew might be. Clint _hoped_ it wasn’t anything more than another lodging installment, although he certainly didn’t need one, even buying food for two.

A soft knock sounded against the cork-lined door, Stan’s voice a muffled holler from the other side. “You done in there? We’ve got a call to Chicago scheduled for nine-fifteen!”

“Sorry, Stan.” Clint opened the door, ducking out and giving the older man his best apologetic shrug. He handed over the money for the fee, and a little bit extra. “Keep the change.”

“That much?”

“Maybe make sure I can have the booth longer next time?” It might not be what he needed if another call came, but Clint knew it never hurt to have a potential favour lined up; Barney had taught him that.

“Eh, it’s your money.” The extra bill slipped into Stan’s pocket. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ve been here a long time. I can adjust the schedule with some notice.”

“Thanks, Stan.” Clint dropped his hat back onto his head and pushed his way into the morning bustle of Carson Street.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> Yeah, I couldn’t not add the Stan Lee cameo. Especially considering that, if you were unsure, this story takes place in a reimagined Pittsburgh past, and my dad is from Pittsburgh, and his name is Stan. I _might_ have put in Stan Lee, but, well… the background of this fic is a send-up to my dad’s hometown.
> 
> Y’all know I couldn’t help but sprinkle in a few more comic references, so Barney aka Trickshot had to make an appearance, even only as a background name drop. Dixmont State Hospital is closed, but it was on the river, so Barney _could_ have a room with a view, maybe. 
> 
> It’ll try to keep the updates coming, but I – genius that I am – decided two months ago that the end of March would be just the _perfect_ time to move nearly 1015 km (630 miles). Soooo… maybe stay patient; and if you’re waiting on me to update other things, I can only promise to try... 
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> **WinterHawk Bingo:** Tattooed Clint


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extra long chapter, so gird up and jump in, dear readers.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Thursday had come and – after Clint’s morning call – nearly gone without incident. It was usually a good day for sales, with people making their purchases in anticipation of their Friday pay. He’d seen Mr. Murdock briefly as the other man left to attend the vespers service, tinted glasses on and cane in hand, but hadn’t had company otherwise. Matt had mentioned that his reader would be coming into town again, which might be an issue if the widower was going to try to keep up his _thing_ with Jessica, but that was one problem Clint just couldn’t take on right now.

He closed shop as usual at seven, and padded up the stairs to his occupied flat. Clint unlocked and opened the door slowly, keeping an eye out for his guest as Lucky ambled over to greet him. “Bucky? You up?”

“In here.” His houseguest’s voice drifted quietly from the kitchen. “I started the potatoes on to boil, and made some coffee.”

“You cut the potatoes?” Clint eased around the excited dog nosing at his heels, glancing at Bucky in the kitchen as he made his way to the bedroom to hang up his hat and coat.

“They ain’t pretty, and the dog got a few, but they’re in the pot.” Bucky shrugged lopsidedly, then reached over to tug up his left suspender when it slipped. He’d managed to undo his cuff button and get himself out of his shirt, leaving him in his trousers and undershirt. Bucky smiled back at him, cheeks flushed from effort or embarrassment; Clint wasn’t certain which, but he certainly didn’t mind the sight as Bucky asked, “You want a cup of coffee?”

“Sure, just let me run him out to do his business.” Clint grabbed a page from the pile of newsprint he kept by the door for Lucky’s more important _business_ , leashed the dog, and headed out to the street. Lucky was – for once – pretty quick about it, even leaving the pile in a spot that made it easy to wrap in newspaper and put in one of the sidewalk cans. Clint should have known his fortune was about to turn, but he’d continued blithely back to the shop, almost missing the tiny figure at the far end of the street, her face framed by wisps of crimson hair trailing from between her hat and scarf as she stalked through soot-covered snow. _Shit!_

Natasha probably hadn’t seen him – or at least would buy the excuse that he hadn’t seen _her_ – so Clint hurried back into the building, carrying Lucky up the stairs so he could take them two at a time, and thanking his last shred of luck that he hadn’t ever given ‘Tasha a key. He slammed the door behind him, making a beeline for the kitchen as Lucky wormed out of his grasp. “Bucky, we need to hide you!”

“Whash?” Bucky’s words were muffled by the chunk of cooked potato in his mouth.

Clint gulped. “My… my _sister_ is coming. She can’t see you here.”

“Just tell her you have a guest.” Arm crossed and looped in his suspenders, Bucky frowned upwards at him. 

“I can’t do that, Bucky. Natahsa isn’t someone who understands ‘ _no.’”_ Clint was sure that, despite not attending to it in English, the word _existed_ in Natasha’s first language; although, he knew for a fact that part of the reason she was even in his life was because she hadn’t understood that word in Russian, either. “She’s the kind that will break a window to get in, then yell at you if she cuts herself on the glass.”

“I… I’m acquainted with one of those.”

“We need to hide you, just for a short while, alright, Bucky?” Hand resting on Bucky’s good shoulder, Clint scanned the apartment, searching out a place Bucky could fit where Natasha wasn’t apt to look. "I’d send you down to Jess, but she isn’t here.”

Bucky shrugged off his hand, huff heavy and petulant. “I can be alone in there.”

 _Fuck._ He’d hit on Bucky feeling helpless again, damnit. “It’s not that I think you can’t be alone, Bucky, but Jessica’s got a hair trigger finger to go with her temper. Even if she’s sober, she might shoot you; it’s happened before, and...” Clint really didn’t want to have to call Claire because someone Jess had shot was bleeding on his floor. _Again._ “... believe me, you don’t want to surprise her by being in her place unexpectedly.”

“Where the hell am I supposed to go, Clint? I ain’t fittin’ in your breadbox of a closet.”

Clint’s eyes slid down to the trunk, still sitting beneath his window

Bucky’s eyes followed his line of sight. “Are you _insane?”_

The shop’s back door buzzer sounded, obnoxious in its rattle from the bedroom; they were out of time and options.

“Bucky, please?” Clint was already moving. He dashed into his bedroom, tugging a pillow and a spare blanket from the bed. They ought to at least help make Bucky’s encore stay in the steamer trunk a bit less uncomfortable.

Bucky seemed to have at least grasped the seriousness of the situation. He was already folding himself up to fit into the chest, settling wobbly down until Clint finished helping him; it was a mixed blessing to know that Bucky was so wonderfully bendable. “Are you situated alright? Comfortable?” 

Clint got another of Bucky’s one-sided smiles in reply. “The pillow helps?”

The buzzing came again from his bedroom, and then kept coming; Natasha repeatedly jamming the button.

“I’m sorry.” Clint turned his full attention to the man in the box. He tucked the blanket he’d brought alongside the army one Bucky had shown up with, trying to support his armless side a little better. “I’ll be quick about getting this over with and getting you out of here; I promise.”

“I’m trusting you on that.”

Clint didn’t miss the nervous edge to those words as he lowered the trunk lid.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Natasha was standing at the back door, arms crossed and chin defiantly high; she looked up at him from the other side of the wire security door as Clint fumbled to get it open. Once he had, though, she remained in the alley, jaw set. “Clinton Francis, such time you took, and this _after_ you left us lonely on Monday.”

“Natasha, I can-”

She cut him off, tossing her head. “You _can_ invite me in and explain.”

It was already seven-thirty; Clint had rarely gotten a visit from her so late in the evening; if anything, Natasha came by to see him most often during the portion of the night that was really just very early the next morning. “I’ve just taken the pot off, Nat, and don’t you have work-?”

“At nine. It is not yet eight, and with you already out of your vest and smelling of coffee and potatoes.” She jabbed at his chest, small sharp finger digging into him. “I will not yell at you from the street, and I would like coffee; unless you plan to leave me on your doorstep?”

 _Like a damn vampire._ As many times as Natasha had breezed into the shop, she always insisted Clint invite her into his home – _formally_ – when she was angry with him. He had to _request_ that she come in to harangue him. It was like picking his own switch; Clint was going to be smarting regardless, and he was going to participate in his lashing. He stepped back, head tilted as invitingly as he could manage, trying not to grimace as he asked, “Would you like to come up for coffee? There’s a fresh pot on.”

“That would be wonderful; it will give us a chance to _talk,_ a thing of which we have much need, yastreb.” Natasha was past him – heels clicking toward the door between the shop and the main apartment hall – faster than Clint could follow; and, somehow, he’d wound up holding her stole and coat.

He was left to trail after her as she stalked through the door and up the stairs, wondering how someone could make such big stomping motions so absolutely silently.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Natasha strode into his apartment like it was her own as soon as Clint unlocked it, walking straight toward the one thing he’d hoped _might_ escape her notice. “This is new, is it not?”

“It is.” Clint felt himself tensing as Natasha _sat_ on Bucky’s trunk, knocking the heel of her shoe back into it, bouncing slightly on the lid. He watched as Lucky settled himself at Natasha’s feet, nosing the trunk a few times before resting his muzzle down on his paws. Best hope the _dog_ didn’t give the whole thing away. 

“Well?”

That was his cue to go get the coffee. It was already apportioned into two cups – the one Bucky had poured for him was still _hot_ even – so Clint stirred a wad of molasses into the fresher one and just took the one Barnes had made for himself. Pulling out and preparing a third cup would leave him open for questions.

“Your parlour is so clean, and you have supper and coffee already prepared…” Natasha’s voice was mildly curious, but heavily accusatory. “Are you having company soon, Clint?”

It might not hurt to play into her presumptions. Clint walked back, carefully handing her his mug, taking Bucky’s to the couch with him. “I might.”

“Hmm.” They sat in silence for a few minutes; Natasha sipping as Clint waited for the other shoe to be lobbed at his head. Across from him Natasha sighed – exaggeratedly dramatic – as she brought her chin to rest on the back of her hand. She crossed her legs in the other direction, ankle length skirt lifting to flash the first few inches of tattooed calf, looking down into her mug as she asked, “Should Wanda not leave the door unlocked for her brother Tuesday from next, when you _will_ be coming out with me?”

“No, Natasha.” Clint loved Natasha – even when she was being an absolute child – but sometimes he just couldn’t stand her. “Wanda may want to find her brother a different dance partner.”

“Hmm…” Natasha stood from her makeshift seat, the lid of the trunk shifting with a click as she did so.

Lucky, for his part, remained tucked close along the side of the box, ignoring the woman stalking her way across the parlour.

Clint’s eyes followed as Natasha wandered toward the kitchen, trailing her hand across the edge of the stove, the drain board, the button-up hung over his dining chair.

_Shit!_

“This is no shirt of yours.” Natasha raised it aloft, pinched between two fingers as she turned back to him with a knowing smirk. “Keeping secrets from me, yastreb?”

Clint wasn’t given a chance to reply as Natasha stalked back towards him, heels clicking on the floor. She leaned over the arm of his couch, staring down her upturned nose at him. “And why is that, hmm? Is he not good for you? Does your sestya need to chase him away?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Is he why you unkindly skipped out on our plans for the evening Monday?” Natasha’s breath was warm on his face as she loomed, up on her toes and still barely taller than he was seated. “Why you left my poor feet to be crushed by my sweet Darcy?”

There was no point in denying that he’d missed their outing, even if Clint had never actually agreed to go. Blaming it on Bucky was the only thing he could do, now that ‘Tasha had his shirt clutched in her hand. “Ye-yeah…”

“Ahh… I walked behind the building Tuesday and did not see you air your sheets?” She stepped around to drape herself against his side, letting her feet hang over the other arm of the couch. “I take it you were elsewhere?”

A non-answer was his best bet; Clint wouldn’t be lying to her, and Natasha could gild whatever lurid details she wanted onto his imagined tryst.

“Hmm.” His tiny Russian friend drew in a sighing breath, lifting manicured fingers to pinch his cheek. “Then you can leave Pietro to find his own romances and bring this man when you come with us. It will be a small party; everyone will enjoy meeting your new friend, especially Phillip.”

 _Fuck._ There was no chance Bucky was going to agree to go to _any_ party – especially one of _Phil’s_ – with him, even if he could comfortably leave the apartment. But Clint could agree to go, and maybe just say that Bucky had cancelled. That might work. “He’s somewhat retiring.”

“Mm… Then how did you – who is always so very personable – meet this retiring man who was worth seeing elsewhere?”

“That after hours sale I mentioned…”

Natasha’s laughter was always bright, but – at least this time – it was also just a little too sharp. “You overcharged the man, and still he wants to see you again?”

Clint inclined his head to the side; it wasn’t a nod, per se, but ‘Tasha would probably read it as one.

“Then you will be bringing him as your date?”

“If I’m able; he’s not from the city.”

“So long as you are not left with a heartbreak when he returns to ‘not from the city.’” Sitting up more properly, but nearly crawling into his lap when she did, Natasha set her chin in her hands and looked up at him. “Does this man have a name?”

“James.”

“James?” Natasha seemed to roll it around in her mind for a minute, lips pursed before she shook her head, crimson cloud of hair fluttering around her face. “It is a good name, but not joyous sounding. You need a man who laughs, Clint. _James_ would be a man for _Clinton;_ for Clint, I am not sure.”

“He laughs just fine, ‘Tasha.” Clint tapped the end of her nose, wiggling his finger until her eyes crossed and she batted his hand away.

“Was it his laugh that caught your good ear then?” Natasha’s brows arched and wiggled. “Or did something else from this _James_ catch your eyes?”

Clint couldn’t leave her question unanswered, but the embarrassment was almost too much to bear. Still in the trunk beneath the window, Bucky could probably hear every word they were saying; he didn’t need his hidden lodger getting cagey around him if Clint gave an unsettling answer, but Natasha was obviously pushing for something physical, and she wouldn’t let him stay silent. “He… well, he’s got this smile where it goes just to one side, and he gets a dimple. It’s… nice…?”

“And you know this from so often looking at his mouth?” Now it was his turn to get his nose tapped before Natasha gave his cheek another light pinch. “Naughty little bird, I have got your number; thinking of his _smile.”_

“Tasha…”

“Do you only ponder _kissing_ his mouth, _or-?”_

“Natasha, please, it’s…” Clint cut her off before Natasha could begin to plumb the depths of the rampant innuendo that clashed so severely with her almost childish face, though he wasn’t sure where he ought to take the conversation from there. He’d wanted to quiet Natasha, yes, and maybe to quiet _himself;_ silence his thoughts about Bucky’s mouth because – now that he’d brought it up and Natasha had kept worrying at it – Clint couldn’t help wondering if – were he of a similar persuasion – Bucky might be willing to let him find out what secrets that coy smile hid. Clint sighed, more at his own stupidity than anything else.

Sliding off his leg, Natasha patted his arm, having taken his exasperation otherwise. “Already heartsick over this one? Oh, little bird. What makes this man so special?”

“He’s just…” _A job._ “... different.”

“Mm.” Natasha let him be, finishing her coffee quietly as she leaned on him.

Clint idly sipped his own cold coffee, coming to terms with the fact that Bucky – like Natasha – liked coffee with a heaping spoonful of molasses. He choked it down as unobtrusively as he could, struggling not to let on. Glancing back towards Bucky’s steamer chest, Clint was glad to see that Lucky was still only laying beside it, not pawing like he had the first time, back before Clint had known who the damn thing had brought into his apartment. Into his _life_ for the foreseeable future.

They sat in a surprisingly comfortable – or at least non-embarrassing – silence a good while longer before Natasha brushed her hand on his arm. “The time goes so quickly; I need to go on my way…”

The clock above his mantle read eight twenty-six. Bucky had been in that trunk, silent as the grave, for nearly an hour; Clint wouldn’t be begging ‘Tasha to stay. “Where are you headed?”

“We will go over to the Northside to work tonight. Finishing a few designs, perhaps seeing a new space for our art.” Taking his cup along with her own, Natasha walked them to the kitchen, rinsing them and leaving them to drain. That she was cleaning up after herself meant, at the minimum, Natasha was on the fast track to forgiving him, if she hadn’t already. “I will call again with my Darcy on Tuesday to meet your James before we leave?”

“If he can make it.” Clint retrieved and held her coat, slipping it back over Natasha’s shoulders to hide her inked skin before they stepped into the hallway.

 _“If,_ yes.” Natasha smiled as she tapped his nose again. “Though I am certain he will be able, just as I am certain Phillip will be thrilled to meet him.”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Clint had made sure the door was bolted behind her when Natasha left. He took the stairs two at a time in his rush to get back to the fourth floor, grateful that Mr. Murdock wasn’t wandering the halls as he was wont to do at night; nothing like bowling over one of his lodgers in his haste. Clint made it back to his apartment without encountering any of the other building residents, slipping into his apartment and double checking that lock as well. Satisfied, he crossed the room to the trunk, voice low as he knelt and tapped on the lid. “Coast is clear. You can come out.”

Bucky grunted within the trunk, and Clint could hear a knocking against the lid before the man inside spoke up. “Little help, Clint? Lid’s stuck, and I ain’t exactly got much to work with.”

“Huh… Maybe from Nat sitting on it? Give me a moment.” It had opened easily enough the first time, and ‘Tasha was light, but she still might’ve torqued it earlier. Clint grasped the sides of the lid, hefting it. The trunk rocked, but the lid stayed on, held tightly by brass hinges… and a pair of matching latches. “Uh, Bucky. The lid isn’t stuck.”

Clint heard a huff and some shuffling from within the steamer chest. “Then why won’t it open if it ain’t-?”

Clint heaved but only succeeded in lifting the chest from the floor in a last ditch effort to lever the damn thing open before he was forced to admit defeat. “It’s, uh… it’s _locked.”_

There was a beat, then the bang from what Clint was certain was a lone fist slamming into the cedar. “You dumb sonuvabitch, you locked me in?!”

“Shhh, shhh, I can get you out. Er, well-” Clint could _try._ He had an axe around here – _somewhere_ – and so long as Bucky curled up tightly in there he ought to be alright. “I’ll hack you out.”

“Don’t-!” The trunk shook slightly as Bucky spoke from within it, voice taking on a thready, nervous edge. “My ma got me this when I signed up – God rest ‘er – and you ain’t hackin’ it apart just ‘cause your crazy sister sat her ass on it; use the damn key, moron.”

“Key?”

“You- you _lost_ the key?!”

“I never _had_ the key.” Clint probably _had_ a skeleton key downstairs that could get into this thing, but who knew how long that might take. “Shit! Sit tight, yeah, Bucky?”

“It’s fucking tight as hell in here, jackass.”

“Right, sorry. I’ll – uh – I’ll be right back.” Clint pushed up from the floor, wincing Bucky mumbled behind him – “ain’t like I can do otherwise” – and walking back to the kitchen. He pulled out some of his uglier cutlery and hurried back to the chest. Picking locks had never been Clint’s speciality, even before he’d gone clean; windows were more his style, but he knew a thing or two. He slid a butter knife into the latch on the right, then bent back the tines of one of his forks; it wasn’t a _good_ pick, but it might work. Clint wriggled it, listening for the movement of the mechanism. The latch clicked – _once, twice_ – and the fork began to turn. Then it stopped, and caught… and _broke_ off at the handle.

_Shit._

“You get that one?” One panel of the lid jiggled slightly; Bucky must have been pressing his hand upwards from the inside.

Clint bit his lower lip, considering his options. One lock was – quite probably – fucked; the other was still latched. They needed an expert.

They needed Scott Lang.

Clint had met him pre-trial in holding. He’d been trying his best to sleep when Scott – looking peevish and small – had been let into his theretofore empty cell. As he’d feigned sleep, Clint had watched Scott uncuff himself to get comfortable on his own narrow bunk, then manage to get back into the cuffs properly a few hours later when they’d come to pick him up. Scott had kept up with him once they’d both gotten outside; had even helped him crack and bounce a few safes Clint had _acquired_ over the years. The man could surely get open a trunk lock; even one with no key and a fork stuck in it. Probably. _Hopefully._

It was a school night, so Cassie would be asleep, and Lang would be home. _Unless he took an extra shift._ Clint took a deep breath, leaning in close to the trunk, keeping his voice even to keep his trapped guest from panicking. “I’m going to get a professional.”

Bucky’s voice echoed with exasperation from within the cramped box. “How are we explainin’ this shit to a locksmith, Barton?”

They _weren’t._ “You’re going to have to trust me, Bucky.”

“Not like I got any other choice.” A heavy sigh echoed up through the cedar, and a knock at the other end. “I’ve got a charlie-horse already.”

“I promise I’ll be quick about it.”

“Ain’t as if I’m goin’ anywhere.”

Clint nodded to no one, then realized his mistake. He hoped the light pat he gave the lid sounded comforting; that was how he’d meant it. “I’ll be back.” Clint slipped out the door, latching the apartment behind him, careful to check the keys in his trouser pocket. _Just in case._

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Jessica’s side of the third floor was quiet, but Clint could hear muffled chuckling through Mr. Murdock’s door. He hurried down the second flight, knocking on Scott Lang’s door as quietly as he could; now was _not_ the time to draw any attention from Luis. After waiting in the hall without answer, though, Clint slipped the ring from his pocket, flipping to the one painted _21,_ and carefully opening the door. “Lang? I need your help.”

“Holy-!” Despite Clint’s whispering, Scott Lang startled out of his doze, tumbling from his wing chair to land on the floor to whisper shout back up at him. “What are you-? Is the place on fire?” 

“No, but it _is_ an emergency. I need you to come with me, right now, and be quiet.”

Scott gestured down to his union suit and gartered socks. “In my underclothes?”

If he was being honest, Clint didn’t care one way or the other, but he could respect Scott’s desire for modesty. “You got a bathrobe?”

“Yeah, sure.” Scott set his hand on the back of his neck, nervous as he headed for his washroom.

“I’ll be in the hall; bring your picks.”

**• ↣☆↢ •**

Lucky was waiting patiently beside the trunk as Scott followed Clint across his parlour. Clint nodded toward the steamer trunk beneath the window. “That’s it. The – um – emergency.”

“You used a fork?” Scott stared up at him with a look of judgemental derision before shaking his head. He knelt, shooing away Lucky with a huff. “You’d’ve been better off with a butterknife and a hatpin.”

“I _used_ a butterknife.”

“Yes; and a _fork.”_ With an exasperated huff, Scott knelt and untied the canvas roll that housed tools he wasn’t – as a condition of his parole – supposed to have in his possession. He slid his reading glasses from his pocket and onto his face, then set his jaw sideways. Lip between his teeth, Scott placed a pick and a thin metal shim against the lock Clint had broken. “Let’s see if we can’t get you open, buddy.”

“I’d appreciate it, Mister.”

Scott jumped from his squat, landing flat on his ass and still scrambling backwards. He couldn’t go too far, though, without landing on Clint’s feet. “Jeezus- Clint, is someone _in_ this?”

Clint could only try to hide his embarrassment as he nodded. “ _That’s_ the emergency.”

“Did you-? Did you buy a _man,_ Clint?” Scott pushed himself up from the floor, pacing in a tight little circle as he spoke. “I… not to pry, but-”

“Please pry.” Bucky was nearly whining. “‘s long as you don’t break the chest, do what you gotta. I’d like to be out of here as fast as fuckin’ possible.”

Scott Lang glanced over toward him, and Clint nodded. He huffed, but knelt back down beside Bucky’s chest, reaching for a second pick. Scott’s brows dropped in concentration as he manoeuvered the small pieces of metal within the lock. He added a third, and Clint could hear the barest click.

“Is it open?”

“You brought me a double feather-key wafer lock, Barton. This is complicated and _modern;_ it takes time, not-” Scott sighed, gesturing to the cutlery still jammed in with his tools. “Not _forks…”_ He sighed, tugging out what looked suspiciously like a mangled iron hatpin. “Rushing isn’t an option.” Scott bit into his lower lip, mutter-humming to himself as he kept working. 

Clint watched the minutes tick by – the hands of his small mantle clock sweeping around the face – for nearly fifteen minutes.

Finally, Scott turned to look at Clint over his shoulder, a look of wary triumph on his face. “Well, I have news, good and bad.”

“Bad first.” _Always._

“This fork is unsalvageable.” Lang’s tepid smile widened, and he knocked his fist gently against the trunk. “But I’ve gotten that one open. The second should be easier since it’s not jammed with your silverware.”

Scott leaned back toward the steamer chest, drumming his fingers gently on the lid. “I’ll have you out of there soon, sir.”

“Thank you.” Bucky’s voice was strained, but carried an undertone of hopefulness.

“You’re welcome.” Clint was glad to see that Scott had relaxed, but – of course – that led to a bit of an issue; as was his wont in social situations, Scott Lang started getting chatty. “So, it looks to me like there was a lot of pressure put on this thing – these lids have to be slammed to really get a mechanism like this to latch, you see – and I would think that you might know better, with this being your chest.”

“It’s not my chest.” Clint quipped as Bucky echoed him, nearly in matched time, “It’s not _his_ chest.” 

“Oh, well, then you, uh…” It was hard to tell if Scott’s fidgeting was from nerves or somehow necessary to his work, but his audible swallow could only be blamed on being rattled. “Now you know better. Don’t jam the lid shut.”

“Don’t let crazy women _sit_ on it.”

Scott’s words came out in a scandalized squawk – “You had a woman up here, too?!” – and Clint nearly clapped his hands over the other man’s mouth just to shut him up. As it stood, his lunge worked well enough; Scott snapped back to working. It was at least a minute before he spoke again, voice low as Scott asked, “So who was she? The crazy lady?”

“Natasha.”

“Ah, mmhmm; very crazy, yes… and… Got it!” Scott began to lift the lid and – now unburdened by concern over Bucky’s entrapment – Clint realized that was, perhaps, not the best of ideas.

Clint nudged Scott aside just in time. Bucky had, apparently, spent the last hour and a half preparing to fling the lid back with every bit of strength he could muster. Clint counted himself lucky to dodge the edge of the steamer’s lid; he’d broken his nose too many times in his life to consider doing it again. 

Bucky grasped the side of the trunk, awkwardly hauling himself out of it, even as Clint tried to wrap an arm around him to make the transition easier.

“Here, let me-” Clint lifted too quickly, and Bucky overbalanced. He was upright and falling into Clint’s chest before either of them could stop it. Clint grabbed for him on instinct to keep Bucky from tripping out onto the floor, leaving them in an accidental embrace in the middle of his sitting room; Clint’s arms around Bucky’s waist, Bucky’s arm slung haphazardly over Clint’s left shoulder. He could feel the warmth of the other man despite the double layers provided by his shirts. “Sorry for that. Didn’t want you to fall.”

“Yeah… Yeah, thanks, but this can’t keep bein’ a weekly thing I gotta do.” Bucky shook his head, wincing as he straightened up a bit more. “Shoulder’s alright, but it’s fuckin’ up my back.”

“Um…” Distracted by the man he was trying to keep upright, Clint had nearly forgotten Scott Lang was still standing behind him. The impromptu locksmith had stood, and now sidled closer, eyeing Bucky with obvious concern. “Are you… um…”

It occurred to Clint that – in the half hour or so that Scott had been in the apartment – he had yet to formally introduce the two of them. “Scott, this is James.”

“Yes, well, Clint, um…” Scott wrung his hands, tipping his chin toward the tiny hall that led from the kitchen to the powder room. “A word?”

“Alright.” _Crap._ Clint couldn’t carry Bucky all the way in there, and Scott wouldn’t have left the room without some expectation of privacy. He kept his arm around Bucky, manoeuvering him to the sofa to set him down as gently as Clint was able. “I just need to smooth things over.”

Bucky winced as he laid himself across the couch to the soft pops of his joints. He answered Clint with a weary glower and grumble, “‘s this gonna be another problem?”

“Scott won’t be trouble.” Clint had the urge to reach down to give Bucky’s head a pet, just to offer some comfort. Lucky seemed to have a similar idea; the dog trotted closer, resting his nose on the sofa beside Bucky’s face. Clint left him there, walking back to the juncture of doorways at the end of his tiny hall.

Scott stood with his arms crossed, staring into the middle distance of Clint’s washroom, chewing his jaw. He glanced up, eyes heavy with doubt. “Look, I don’t usually like to stick my nose in anybody’s business – especially not yours, what with you giving me and Cassie a place when I- Listen, I’ve got to ask, Clint, are you…? I mean, is this some sort of… _private_ thing? Because maybe I shouldn’t question your – ah, erm, taste? – but you doing _that?_ And doing it _here?_ I mean, it’s not like any of us have pristine reputations to maintain, but I’m trying to do better, and-”

“Hey!” Bucky’s half-shout interrupted Scott’s unfettered babbling. “I said I’m alright, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure, okay. Sorry; I’m sorry.” Scott cleared his throat. “Look, seriously, if the trunk thing is something you and your – um – _bosom buddy_ enjoy, then-”

“I am not his-!”

Clint heard the floorboards creak – “James; stay there.” – and then the squeak of his settee as Bucky sat back down. He took a step closer to Scott, arm looping the shorter man’s shoulders, voice dropping. “Listen to me; I did James a favour like I did you a favour, Scott. Nothing beyond that. This was all just an accident, so there’s no need to worry about things coming back on you, alright?”

That didn’t satisfy his lodger-come-locksmith, and Scott pressed further. “You did him a favour? In a _trunk?_ With _Natasha?”_

 _Ah._ That alone would have been enough to set alarms going off in the engineer’s brain. Scott was familiar with ‘Tasha – not entirely by choice – and Clint couldn’t hold the resulting wariness against him. “I was hiding him _from_ Natasha. Didn’t want her any more upset with me.”

“You pissed off the Russian woman?” If anything, Scott Lang looked more fretful now that he’d gotten an explanation. “Oh, Clint; that’s so much worse. That’s-”

“Scott, it’s not a problem, yeah? Natasha just gets a little nosey around my,” Clint would just have to drop it out there and hope Scott wouldn’t be further scandalized, “my _private_ life.”

“But he said he wasn’t…” Scott trailed off, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you bring him down? He could have stayed with us. Better than being shut up in that trunk of his.”

“Are you telling me Luis’ curiosity wouldn’t have set him running across to investigate?” He was an excellent tenant, but Luis was a gossip hound of the highest calibre.

“No, no; he’d have been over straightaway.” Scott shook his head, sliding his glasses off and back into his pocket. “I… I should get back down. Don’t want Cassie to wake up without me being there.”

“Yeah, that might be the best idea, Scott, but thank you. I owe you one.” Clint much prefered being owed favours than being in anyone else’s debt, but he could trust Lang not to screw him over.

A belief supported by the follow-up question as Scott walked back through the kitchen and into the sitting room. “Let me borrow Lucky for a while, and we’ll call it even? Cassie really likes having him around when I’m on third shift?”

“Sure thing.” A snap brought Lucky from the sofa to heel at Clint’s side, letting Clint leash the dog for Scott to take downstairs. “Maybe you could watch him for a time?”

“Of course; Cassie loves this dog.”

“Yeah, and – listen,” Clint planted his arm on the wall beside Scott’s head. He didn’t _need_ to intimidate the guy – Scott wasn’t exactly the kind who’d need it – but Clint knew it wouldn’t hurt to underscore his words. “You’re watching the dog because _Cassie likes him._ I asked you to open a trunk for me, and we’re both disappointed to have found it _empty,_ isn’t that _right?”_

“Y-yeah. _Empty;_ nothing in it at all.” Scott Lang stepped back into the door, already reaching for the knob. “I’ll just- Good, evening.” He was out of the apartment at a quick trot with Lucky at his heels, the door closing decisively behind him.

**• ↣☆↢ •**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Scott is absolutely _scandalized_ by the entire evening; as are Bucky and Clint, for similar and very different reasons.
> 
>  **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> Find [me over here on tumblr and send me a poke,](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com) or [over here on twitter!](https://twitter.com/fadedsepia)
> 
>  **• ↣☆↢ •**
> 
> **WinterHawk Bingo:** Flexibility
> 
> **• ↣☆↢ •**


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